Turn Me Back! (novella)

  Turn Me Back!

  Victoria Kelly

  Zen Parking Press

  Copyright © 2020 by Victoria Kelly

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. 1. The Curse of Perfect Curls

  2. 2. In Search of Riches

  3. 3. To Bait a Dragon

  4. 4. The Advantages of Inappropriacy

  5. 5. A Generosity of Coins

  6. 6. The Clothes Make the Deed

  7. 7. The Golden Carriage

  8. 8. An Accidental Messenger

  9. 9. A Plot Foiled

  10. 10. The Chapel at Zair

  11. 11. Sliding into Chaos

  12. 12. Infiltration and Larceny

  13. 13. A Proper Princess

  14. 14. Air Aid

  15. 15. The Right-hand Army

  16. 16. An Unexpected Ally

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  Also by Victoria Kelly

  About the Author

  Prologue

  The puppet show was well attended, which wasn’t necessarily a good thing.

  It was early morning when the bright wagons were first spotted, stringing their way through the forest glades. Word spread quickly through the region and the first onlookers arrived later that afternoon. By nightfall, people had thronged from villages far and near to see the show. While puppets were traditionally regarded as children’s entertainment, folk in this forlorn and forsaken hinterland were so starved for entertainment that even a troupe of dancing cockroaches would have been well-attended.

  And to compare Waldani’s Puppets to a troupe of dancing cockroaches was to do them a grave disservice. The dolls were beautiful; the scripts were well-scrivened, and what the puppeteers might have lacked in dedication, they more than made up for in drunkenness. They were jolly and joking. More than one running gag had been born at the bottom of a gin-bottle. Waldani graciously allowed their boozing (even going so far as to keep the gin stocks topped up) so long as the performances did not suffer. In any case, as has been mentioned, the audience had so little with which to compare the show that they were pitifully easy to impress.

  Upon their arrival, visitors found an entire section of forest cordoned off. Before they could reach the chosen glade that housed the low, curtained stage, they were first forced to queue through a bottleneck where they lined up for the privilege of handing over their hard-scrimped coins as entrance fees.

  And indeed, it was a privilege, because there at the gate was the most beautiful little girl that any of the pig-rearing peasants had seen in their lives. ‘Angelic’ didn’t do justice to the little blonde-haired stunner. ‘Cherubic’ failed to capture the beatific grace of her smile. Many of the show’s visitors were so lacking in the vocabulary department that they were forced to resort to referring to her as ‘purdy’, and consequently suffered a few days under the nagging suspicion they had committed a mild blasphemy.

  Yes, the little girl—presumed by all to be Waldani’s daughter—was arguably one of the most important members of the troupe, being, as she was, solely responsible for the fact that not a single visitor escaped without paying. How could the thought cross their mind once they had been beguiled with those innocent blue eyes? Indeed, some visitors even queued twice for the privilege of pressing their money into her small palm and hearing her murmur (like a distant echo from heaven), “Thank you. Please take any seat.”

  The only discordant note in the whole, glorious process of paying and enjoying your few precious seconds basking in the glow of the young goddess’s smile, was the overly long, hideously sharp knife that lay in plain sight on the table next to her. A couple of well-meaning fathers even attempted to pick it up, reasoning that it had surely been left there as an oversight. Waldani would certainly thank them for moving it away, thus safeguarding the well-being of his precious daughter. But no sooner had they reached for the knife, they were arrested by an abrupt, “Leave that there!” from the girl herself. She was always quick to remedy the lapse with an extra smile for the well-meaning fools in question. Nevertheless, the knife stayed where it lay, glinting evilly.

  Performances were well-received in practically all the stops along Waldani’s tour. For what bumpkin wouldn’t enjoy a grand tale of debauchery and wife-beating at the end of a long day toiling in the fields? Folk generally left the show feeling wondrously cheered, repeating the best bits to one-another, reliving the emotional climaxes in their minds as they wended their ways home to their hovels. Performances were well-received in all places, except one.

  No one can really say what the difference was when it came to this particular show in this particular fiefdom. It was a rough part of the realm, to be sure, but no rougher than others they had traversed without incident. Perhaps the puppeteers hadn’t quite drunk their fill before the start. Perhaps the wagons themselves were looking a tad dull and bespattered at the end of their rolling journey through this muddy spring season. Waldani had intended this show to be one of the last before the company took to the towns to do their usual festival run. As it happened, it was the last of all.

  It started like any other night. Visitors arrived in droves, willingly surrendering their hard-earned funds to the miniature beauty at the entrance. Folk gathered in the glade before the curtain, chattering and humming excitedly. When the show started, they enjoyed the sketches and laughed along with the ridiculous songs.

  Then someone threw a punch. The story goes that a man heard a comment made by his neighbour and took offence. But like any brawl, it didn’t take long for the original reason to be buried under a pile of mindless, snarling, punching men and women. Yes, even the women. It was that sort of town.

  It was also the sort of town where a certain proportion of the population weren’t above using a disturbance to their advantage, sneaking off to see what could be liberated into their own pockets. As the battle of fists raged in the glade, a shadowy group melted away from the ruckus, creeping back along the path to where they’d last seen the cash-box, with all its delicious, rattling booty.

  But if these ne’re-do-wells had expected to find the entrance kiosk empty, they were startled to see the same little blonde girl sitting there. The same little blonde girl with one tiny difference. The knife that had been lying on the table was now held firmly in her small grasp.

  There was a shocking incongruousness in seeing such a lovely little child grasping a sharp blade. If the rascals had been inclined towards philosophy, they might have stopped to ponder exactly what was in the nature of the sight that gave them pause.

  But they weren’t so inclined, so they didn’t stop and they didn’t pause. They converged on the girl. Even with that knife, she’d surely be easy prey. There was no way in hell she knew how to use it or had the strength to stop a determined man four times her size.

  The screaming was what stopped the brawl. Those who ran towards the sound returned to say they’d found Waldani’s daughter covered in blood. An uproar ensued. The sheriff was called. Luckily he happened to be nearby, nursing a rapidly swelling eye. It had been caught by someone’s elbow as he’d been making his way out of the fracas. He hadn’t been brawling, he was quick to assure anyone who’d listen. Unfortunately, nobody believed him. It was that sort of town.

  The sheriff grabbed his trusty chair leg (standard issue to all lawmen) from where it lay next to a pile of unconscious ex-altercaters. He holstered it, hitched up his belt and then
hauled his deputy out of a mildly smouldering discussion with two other I-didn’t-brawlers. They hurried along the path to the scene of the reported crime, ready to question the suspects.

  Except, when they arrived, there weren’t any suspects to question. Only a pile of bodies and a remarkably composed-looking little girl covered in a remarkable amount of blood.

  “Ahh, here he is,” boomed Waldani, who was crouched next to the little girl, proffering a handkerchief. “Now Willa, tell the sheriff what happened.”

  “A gang of idiots came back here, thinking they’d swipe your gold,” the girl stated, matter-of-factly. “I stopped them,” She wriggled away from Waldani’s handkerchief as he attempted to wipe some of the blood from her face. “Leave that,” she snapped. “None of it’s mine anyway.”

  “I’m so sorry, I think I misheard.” The sheriff wondered if he’d been hit too hard in the head. “Did you say you stopped them?”

  “Yes, I…” the girl glanced up at him and then sighed, continuing in a sing-song voice. “I told them to go away and they didn’t but then they started fighting and somehow they all killed one-another.”

  “Ahhh.” The sheriff relaxed. That made a lot more sense.

  “And you just kept out of the way, didn’t you, my sweet?” Waldani nudged her.

  “Yes,” said the girl in a bored manner.

  “Yes, what?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Yes, Daddy.”

  The Sheriff and his deputy glanced at one another and smiled. She really was too adorable. Thank goodness she hadn’t been hurt in the fray. They’d have to ask the puppet show to leave town, but Waldani would be keen to be on his way after this ruckus. As for the heap of dead men, they were layabouts and trouble-makers, the lot of them. The village would be a good deal quieter after this. A fine night’s work!

  Waldani picked up his precious cash box and held out a hand to his daughter. “Come, Willa.” Together, they led the way back to the glade where the wagons were parked.

  As soon as they were out of sight, the little girl snatched her hand away and stalked off by herself into the darkness.

  1. The Curse of Perfect Curls

  Well, one thing’s certain. That’s the last time I’m working for a bloody puppet show!

  Branches tear at my clothes as I stomp through the trees but I ignore them. My outfit is ruined anyway. The bloodstains from those dying idiots will never wash out. Sod it. Another dress gone to waste.

  You’d think kids’ clothes would be cheaper, being smaller and logically requiring less material to make. But no. They’re bloody expensive. Especially the kind of sickeningly adorable dresses that Waldani required me to wear for this gig. The bastard even wrote it into my contract, along with the clause stating that damage to said dresses was my own responsibility. If it wasn’t for that, you can be damn sure I’d be claiming back every penny it’s costing me getting all gore-soaked while protecting his miserable cashbox.

  After the drunken brawl, Waldani decides to skip the last few planned stops, instead driving the convoy of wagons straight back to Druinberg. He needs replacements for the members of his crew who’d broken limbs in the fight, not to mention new security staff. I made it clear after the brawl that as far as I was concerned, my contract was fulfilled and I was finished with his whole band of idiots. I said it all in a perfectly pleasant tone of voice while checking the authenticity of my smile in the shiny surface of the knife I was holding. He didn’t argue with me.

  As soon as we roll up to Druinberg’s market square, I sling my bundle of belongings over my shoulder, collect my meagre pay from a glowering Waldani and head off, weaving my petite figure through the crowd.

  Heads turn to watch my progress. Men, women and children stop what they’re doing and gaze, open-mouthed, as I pass. Several women try to stop me, asking where my parents are, but I evade them. My parents are dead and there’s no need to go into it.

  When I reach the familiar green-painted door, I’m forced to bang on it with my infuriatingly tiny fist because the bell is too high for me to reach. “Come in,” calls a voice. But I don’t, because I can’t reach the latch either. Fuming silently, I thump a few more times. And again. Until finally, the door swings open and a woman with mud-brown hair looks out. She doesn’t see anyone and starts to close the door, until I clear my throat and her gaze drops a couple of feet. “Oh, it’s you.” She chuckles. “Still haven’t shaken it off then.”

  “Look, I know I was rude, but this curse is ridiculous. You’ve had your fun. How about you turn me back?”

  She mockingly cocks a hand behind her ear. “I hear what you say, little girl, and it doesn’t sound like an apology.”

  I stamp my foot. “I’m not a little girl!”

  She doubles over, hooting with laughter. “Oh goodness,” she gasps, wiping tears from her eyes. “It was worth the hassle of cursing you just for that. Has anyone ever told you, you’re adorable when you’re angry?”

  I make an effort to contain myself and attempt to recollect the mature arguments I rehearsed while on the road. “Look, ma’am, I’m twenty-three years old and a master mercenary fighter. But I can’t get anyone to take me seriously because you’ve made me look like a bloody six-year-old!”

  “Yes,” she says. “Isn’t it hilarious!”

  Gnashing my teeth, I try again. “My profession is vitally important to the safety of the realm. People could die if you don’t turn me back.”

  She shakes her head, smiling. “Sorry, not good enough.”

  I fold my arms in exasperation. “You’re ruining my sex life!”

  She stops smiling and bares her teeth, looking all at once like the witch she is. “That was the point of the whole exercise, you ignorant, vain little creature. Bad enough that you insulted me in my own home, you also made it clear that you care for nothing but yourself. You boasted about turning heads. Your hobby, as I understand it, was luring husbands away from their loving wives. I think I’ve fairly succeeded in putting a stop to that!”

  “But how long are you planning to leave me like this?” I ask piteously. “I’m wasting the best years of my life here!”

  “You’ll stay looking like that until I’m convinced you’re sorry and that you’ve mended your ways. Now scram, kid. I’ve got better things to do.” She disappears inside and slams the door.

  I think about knocking on the door again, but decide it’s a waste of time and knuckles. I’m halfway down the path when the door opens again.

  “I just wanted to say,” she calls after me. “I love that dress. It really brings out your dimples!”

  I flip her off and hear her cackling as the door slams again. Witch.

  As I trudge off, I’m struck by a wave of helplessness. I really thought if I just gave that woman enough time to cool off, she’d come to her senses, realise how she was devastating my life and have the decency to turn me back. Apparently not. She didn’t seem repentant. Quite the opposite, in fact.

  No-one would imagine being turned into a child could be such a horrible punishment. After all, I could have ended up as a frog or a newt or something worse. Plus, there are whole industries that revolve around people being desperate to recapture their youth.

  But this isn’t just about being wrinkle-free and rosy-cheeked. I’ve been saddled with a tiny frame, a tiny bladder, milk teeth that wobble ominously, the whole caboodle. Once you start walking around as a child when you’re used to everyone treating you like an adult, you realise it’s actually a pretty vile punishment. And let me tell you, it’s disastrous in my line of work when you turn up for a job looking like I currently do. Doesn’t matter how skilled and famous I insist I am, all they see are the curls. And people just find it too weird hiring a child to protect them.

  In all honesty, I don’t blame them. I’d have trouble taking my current body seriously too. No matter how I try, I can’t seem to tone down the cuteness. My complexion is flawless and glowing. My dimpled cheeks are irredeemably rosy. My hair falls into perfec
t ringlets every time I shake my head. It’s a disaster.

  But I can’t hang around forever, waiting for that wretched witch to discover a conscience! The world is wide and there is too much life to live. I need to come up with another plan to make it happen.

  And then the answer hits me. Gold! Even the most steadfast of wicked-doers would surely be persuaded of the error of her ways when plied with a great clinking pile of metallic sunshine. I need to collect an enormous pile of gold and then use it to bribe that witch to undo her curse.

  The next question is: where am I going to get a huge pile of gold from? The gig with Waldani’s group was a horrible deal and left me with precious little money. In any case, I might need to spend what I have on equipment for my next job. I’ll have to seek out something really lucrative for it to be worth my time.

  While I’m thinking all this, my feet have carried me through Druinberg’s cobbled streets to where the city’s famous market is located. I go straight to the section where people can find mercenaries for hire.

  In case you’ve never seen a mercenary market, it’s a bit like a cattle market, except with swords. I wander up and down the row, looking at everything. Then wander up and down the same row a second time, cursing my luck. It’s a slow day from the looks of things. Near the water pump are a couple of farmers who probably want protection while herding a flock of stinking animals through some remote mountain region. Yawn. A bookish guy with glasses is standing next to a pile of heavy-looking baggage. Probably wants someone to carry all that while protecting him on a journey. Well it’s not gonna be me! There are the usual mounted groups looking for new members, but the mere fact that I’m currently too small to sit on a horse automatically excludes me from those. I start a conversation with one promising merchant, but get weirded out by the creepy looks he keeps giving me, and eventually excuse myself.